Acta Est Fabula
by Sandra E
Summary: While visiting Krum in Bulgaria, Hermione stumbles upon Sirius Black.
1. I

**Title**: Acta Est Fabula

**Author**: Sandra

**Category**: Angst, romance.

**Spoilers**: Of course.

**Rating**: R

**Summary**: While visiting Krum in Bulgaria, Hermione stumbles upon Sirius Black. Dark fic.

**Disclaimer**: Oddment! Tweak!

**Author's Notes**: Reworked from a dead, old story. Oddly, I like the lines even though I'm relatively indifferent to the pairing [now]. Just goes to prove how far my HP obsession goes. To those who were there through my Awkward Phase (Mags, go away _now_ ;), I certainly do apologize. To those of you who have no clue what I'm talking about, _good_.

**Feedback**: Well, duh.

**Etc**: To Sam and Daniel, because I'm stealing their happily ever after.

  


**Setting**: Year Six, slight AU, branching off after _Goblet_ _of_ _Fire_. Harry never made it back from the Triwizard Tournament.

  


*****

  


  


"It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it."  
-- Aristotle

  


*****

  


**Prologue: Not Really, Thank You**

  


  


They say that once you leave, you can never go back home again.

There are people who, even though they don't, can't, _shouldn't_ believe it anymore, say that time can heal any and all wounds, and that perhaps, maybe, possibly, one could go home once the healing was completed.

Of course, even they, the optimistic of the bunch, know there are always exceptions to the rule.

They know that, out there, in the great cosmos, in the unparalleled expanse of infinity, exist souls that, even if they wanted to, could never go back, because time, cruel as it is, has swallowed whatever stood in its path and left only vague memories to add to the pain.

And yet, the silly, unforgiving paradox remains, because time is relative and its value unclear, so it can be ignored, while the simple ideals of '_home_' linger like frightened, unsure children, like last anchors in a crumbling reality. And while time is sometimes forgiven, no one ever forgets a home.

However.

Sometimes, but only sometimes, they, those exceptions to the rule, understand that time flies by much too fast.

Sometimes they don't care, because all they want is for time to just go, go, go, never slow down, never stop to look behind, never change lanes, just floor it until the narrow road hits a dead end. So they could burn their bridges.

Of course, there comes a time when they realize how slowly time passes when they grieve --- for friends, for family, for what ifs --- so slowly it seems like they're trying to climb the steepest, tallest hill there is, decipher a dead culture without a primer, travel to places without a functional portkey. Impossible, absurd and extremely impractical.

So.

They don't grieve.

They move on and they wait, making themselves live for whatever reason, tell themselves it's going to be okay, it's going to be okay, they'll get through it, they'll climb that damn hill, they'll see what waits for them at the top. And then they'll go back home because someone else has rebuilt their bridges.

Someday, according to the movies, that will, should, _has_ to happen. Probably not today, or the day after that, because redemption is just a touch too far away, and pain steals away all comfort, deepening the blow until time stills to a heartbeat, a gossamer thin scrap of present where frustration and anger vie for control. Where the concept taunts them because home is where the heart is, and if the heart is filled with pain, where _is_ home?

But it doesn't matter to them. Not at all.

Because they know. You can never go back again.

  


*****


	2. II

**Author's Notes**: Yes, it was just the prologue. Of course it doesn't make sense. ;)

_Anna_: It's not so much wrecked as it is, er, delirious. I blame the bunny. He ought to be shot.

  


*****

  


**Something Wicked This Way Comes:**

  


  


Hermione Granger would wake up, every day, and find that tomorrow never came.

At least, not the tomorrow she had been waiting for. It was painfully difficult to resist the lure of time-travel, that enticing breath of temptation near her ear. But she had been doing it for almost two agonizingly long years. Each day, the tiniest part of her would die, and her level of resistance would increase.

It was a convenient form of denial, this rejection of reality. Going through the motions, clinging to some distant _what_ _if_, expecting life to just resume as if he wasn't _really_ gone. As if everything she'd been told was a lie, a befitting untruth, a long, pointless dream which was certain to eventually run its course.

"The end," Dumbledore had said, "of another year. There is much I would like to say to you all tonight --- but I must first acknowledge the loss of two very fine people, who should be sitting here, enjoying our feast with us. I would like you all, please, to stand, and raise your glasses, to Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter."

It was strange that she could still remember Dumbledore's words with such clarity, having only heard them once, and in such a sorry state that she couldn't tell a Slytherin from a Hufflepuff.

"What will come will come," Professor McGonagall had said later, "and we have to meet it when it does."

Constant vigilance, it was. Constant vigilance; a conservative vigil which blended into a suffocating succession of almost psychedelic laws.

Don't touch anything. Stay away from the Forbidden Forest. Screen your pets. Check suspicious flasks. Report any strange behavior. Don't trust your shadow.

Escape, as undesirable and foolish as it had seemed, was impossible. From vigilance, sprung chains.

She had been chained to Hogwarts. It had been her home, her prison, her own private little cell where she'd gone to class, learned (always, always learned), vaguely socialized and, most importantly, had been protected, dependent, numb.

Hiding in her little bubble until time wore away shock and numbness and fear, and fused into an amalgam of anger and waiting.

It had been like breaking a butterfly's wings. Like taking its freedom, but not its life. Drowning it in misery because you wanted to tame it, make it better, protect it, make it yours. But it never worked like that. Because life meant nothing without freedom and having no wings meant Hermione had no choice but to be firmly grounded and rooted and dependable on that little, stalwart bubble she called Hogwarts. 

No one ever left. They would come, be sorted, be expelled, graduate, would sometimes run away, but they could never leave. Not even in death. Haunted and hunted and hurt, but never away. Because hurting meant being owned, because staying meant having a home, _being_ home. And if you plucked the wings off a butterfly, where would it go anyway?

But Viktor, Viktor was a lifesaver.

She had been too young, at fourteen. At fifteen, amidst trials and segregation, she'd forgotten. At sixteen, she'd accepted his invitation.

She wouldn't have gone, not really, if Ron hadn't been so against it. He knew precious little about Hermione Granger, post-Harry Potter. But he knew he didn't want to lose her.

So he had told her, on a sunny, dreary day, intent on making her stay, prolonging that sliver of change he couldn't deal with.

"I love you," he had said, "and we'll be fine, Hermione. And if you wait just a little longer --- I'm sure Harry's not dead --- he'll be back, so please, Hermione."

The sky could break, you know.

You could look at it for hours and not see it, but if you turned your back for a slippery short moment, if you just blinked, a small crack would appear, like something very sharp, very painful had scraped the sky. And then the heavens would start to cry, to bleed, and you wouldn't be able to put it back together again, Humpty, wouldn't be able to mend it, to do anything to make it better.

But you could run.

You could be nice and polite about it, even mature, but it would still be running. And it would have the exact opposite effect on you than what you had originally planned. It wouldn't make you stronger, not in so many ways; it would break you and make you so powerful you would become weak.

Being away from Hogwarts, the Burrow, the world that was still searching for Harry Potter, was a double-edged sword. Protected, she'd felt like she didn't exist, didn't matter, wasn't useful. Unprotected, she felt alive but ordinary.

Bulgaria was different. Playing Quidditch was the extent of Viktor's interest in all things magical. He liked Muggles, had surrounded himself with a never-ending supply of oblivious pedestrians, observing them under the cover of night. It was pre-Hogwarts for Hermione all over again, where she had only that nagging inkling of suspicion tugging at her brain --- go on, Hermione, swish and flick, swish and flick, just try it, what could it hurt?

Every day, she would walk the streets of Viktor's city, alone, adding and subtracting from her old plans. Had she opted never to have anything to do with the wizarding world again, she could have easily faded into the background, joining the Muggle world as doctor or a lawyer or anything that would give her the strength to ignore the siren-song of the first of September, of King's Cross Station, of Hogwarts Express.

Viktor's city was all dark alleys and cobblestone lanes. Not unlike Diagon Alley, but the people were normal, ignorant, hurrying around, smelling of frustration and watermelons.

Early mornings were her favorites. She enjoyed walking to the main square, where old women, haggard and hollow-eyed, tried to sell her cheap trinkets, where a slice of pizza was lethal, and little children ran around barefoot. Usually, she would buy an apple, run it through the miniature waterfall near the city pump, toss a coin into the fountain and wait for Viktor, under the large square clock that was always two minutes off.

But today, Hermione Granger decided to change her routine. She walked past the main square, past the long row of colorful stands, went far beyond the stone stairway that led into the center. In the upper city, there was a statue of a poet sitting on a bench; his bronze arms outstretched on each side of the armrest. She sat down to the poet's left, under an old-fashioned lantern, and observed the city below. Churches and cathedrals were overshadowed by the rising new constructions, speeding blue trams and an occasional pigeon.

Graffiti marred the short stone wall before her, and the avenue behind it slowly emptied, as younger Muggles tried to escape the sun. A breeze flew in from nowhere, tangling her hair on the poet's pointed finger, accompanied by frantic chirping.

A most uncomfortable feeling crept up her spine.

"Hermione," said a voice.

Hermione froze and slowly turned her head. There, silhouetted by the rising sun behind him, stood Sirius Black, looking like a feverish, slightly crazed and altogether unhealthy man. His posture was bad, as if he had spent months sleeping on nails, there were ominous circles under his eyes and lines around his mouth, but he was smiling.

Quickly, Hermione stood up and fixed her eyes on his face. His smile, slightly lopsided and tired, grew as she frowned. His eyes were dangerously glossy and yellowish, and Hermione, against her better judgment, reached out to touch him, to reassure herself she wasn't seeing things.

His skin felt leathery; he hadn't shaved and was obviously in need of rest, his robes were tattered and more than one Muggle stopped to look at them.

"Hermione?" he asked, cocking his head, as if he were slightly unsure it was really her.

Hermione lowered her hand. Standard journalistic questions zipped through her head. Why is he here? How did he get here? What happened? When did he get this sickly? 

And suddenly, Hermione felt like she was home again, helping Harry with his homework, bickering with Ron, teasing Ginny, being yelled at by Snape.

She hated the numbness that accompanied the feeling, so she squared her shoulders and cleared her throat, intent on remaining indifferent.

"Sirius --- Mr. Black?" she said calmly.

He gave her an odd look, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. "I've been looking for you."

Before she could ask why, he continued.

"I found him," he said, his eyes narrowing in exhausted excitement.

"I found him, Hermione," he repeated, squeezing her wrist until her skin started burning. His fingers were cold and clammy and working ferociously. "I've found Harry."

Hermione Granger winced and realized that Harry Potter, quite inadvertently, had done what no Dementor ever could.

He'd taken away Sirius Black's sanity.

  


*****


End file.
